


Stray Here with You

by ifoughtadingoandwon



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Political Background Noise, Slow Burn, W-writing dialogue?!, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23508964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifoughtadingoandwon/pseuds/ifoughtadingoandwon
Summary: A year after Gangrel's defeat, Robin is unhappy playing desk jockey. Meanwhile, Lon'qu returns to Ylisse at an inopportune time, in an ill-fitting role. Luckily, indignation unites the both of them.Set during the time-skip.
Relationships: Lon'qu/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	1. Misplaced

A dilemma loomed on her desk, untouched for the last two days. Willing it to disappear had not made the tariff proposal any smaller. It was tempting to flip to the back and sign without perusing (as many council members did), but Robin had integrity.

But that integrity crumbled at the thought of combing through handwritten additions crammed into margins and indecipherability. And that wasn’t the only sore point—it was never going to make past the council floor. Only the politically suicidal would stifle the growing trade between Ylisse and its neighbors. They had all known that when they had appointed her, of all people, to oversee the drafting process.

Besides, there were more pressing duties—like finishing the latest book Sumia had left her. 

Just as she had gotten to the reveal of the murderer, a heavy knock interrupted her reading.

Robin hoped that this wasn’t another wheat farmer; she had heard enough about the economics of cereal grains to put her off bread for the next month. She closed her eyes for a moment and steeled herself. “Come in.”

A face, one she hadn’t seen in nearly a year, cleaved through the door.

“Oh, hello,” was all Robin could muster.

Lon’qu entered with a sheathed blade jutting from his hip and a heavy pack towed over a shoulder. “I was directed to come here,” he said, skipping formalities in his usual curt way. With a frown, he sidestepped an unfurled roll of parchment crossing the carpet.

Robin sprung up. She slammed her book closed. “My apologies. My letter must not have reached you in time; Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick still have their duties in the Talis dukedom. In their absence, I’m the person to talk to.” How rehearsed it sounded, cool in its politeness—as if they had not shared meals and fought together. She managed a smile and saw an opening. “But only for matters other advisors find most disagreeable.”

“…Disagreeable?”

“I hope you won’t take that as a personal slight.”

“It would not be false.” There was a hint of a smile now. Before, she would’ve mistaken it for an astray twitch, but she knew better now.

Despite how he humored her, even from across the room she saw the way his shoulders tucked close and arms flattened against his sides like a wary street cat. Bad news? No, there wasn’t the shape of grim news etched into his face. It couldn’t be his discomfort around women—the distance and heavy oak desk between them was a welcome shield. There wasn’t Basilio in the corner, waiting to be impressed. So, just what was setting Lon'qu off?

His skirting glances across the room made her all too aware of her study just then.

It was in an embarrassing state. Remains of yesterday’s mutton dinner sat on the guest chair and books fortified themselves across the dusty room. Even the desk was not spared from her disregard—maps upon maps and a disarray of letters mid-reply. The biggest offense was the worn divan shoved against the wall and visible between parted privacy screens, revealing the mussed up pillows and blankets. It was all too apparent how many nights Robin spent there. Her face grew warm with shame.

She hadn’t meant to turn her study into an extension of her private quarters, but warding off nobles by insulting their delicate sensibilities was a small pleasure. The other Shepherds, for the most part, didn’t seem to mind.

But surely Lon’qu would. He never showed up to training without holes mended and patched in his sparring garb. Anyone could tell he was on mess duty by the cut and peel of the vegetables in the stew. Even the way he talked was so precise and guarded.

Robin braced for a look of disdain or a sharp tongue. But Lon'qu only shifted in his dusty boots. The grime on them and wrinkles in his travelling cloak spoke of the weariness of weeks on the road, even if he refused to slump from fatigue. She hadn’t even invited him to rest before fretting about nothing.

Gods, his self awareness was contagious.

“Go on, take a seat. You must have come straight here—” She stopped, remembering the mutton, its unblinking raisin and pea eyes staring at her. “Wait, let me get that first...” Robin balanced the platter on some books and returned to her chair after a quick inspection for any gravy that could stain. To her amusement, Lon’qu made his own query of the seat cushion.

“I hope your visit isn’t a sign you’ve been cast from Basilio’s side. Has that masked lad returned?” She teased as he took his seat.

“Hmph. No, Basilio still has faith in me even after that… incident.” His lips twisted for a moment. “I remain sworn to Chrom’s cause until he ceases need of me.”

With the light pouring in from the window behind her and washing across his features, Robin allowed herself a glance. Lon'qu looked strong.

Just how well did Ferox treat him in the year Lon'qu had been gone? There was a point in the Border Wastes where the sun drew near all life from him. The threat of Maribelle’s parasol hadn’t been enough to get him to take precautions, and even bedridden, he rolled his eyes at Robin’s scolding. A worrying, ghastly paleness had enveloped him for a day like a skin of wet parchment. 

Now here he was, strong as ever and even color to his cheeks.

A rustle of papers interrupted her reminiscence. Lon’qu slid a string-bound document across the desk. “The Khans’ signatures.”

Other than a beer stain on page three, there hadn’t been many major revisions since it last crossed her desk. As informal as it was, the memorandum was an effort to undo the decades of disrepair at the hands of Chrom’s father; at the height of his paranoia, he severed ties with the proud nation. In turn, the Longfort shut its doors to Ylissean dignitaries and diplomats alike. Brigands had used this to their advantage, with some even impersonating Prince Chrom himself. And successfully, if it weren’t for Raimi’s watchful eyes and fearsome lance. Now, the Prince and Khans were eager to make amends.

An addition stopped her reading dead in its tracks.

Robin looked up at Lon’qu, amusement playing across her face. “A yearly joint feast? Am I reading that correctly?”

“A cross-cultural exchange, Basilio explained it.”

“Did he write that in himself as another excuse to drink?”

“Basilio is not the type of man who needs an excuse to get his fill of food or mead.” That wry look of his spoke of all the many banquets he must have suffered through at Basilio’s behest.

Robin bound the document, fiddling with the knotted string. “A shame Chrom isn’t here. He’d be having a good laugh over that,” she said. “I’ll be sure he reads this first thing—no doubt he’ll sign it. Handshake, then, to celebrate a new era of diplomacy between our nations?” She stuck out her hand. 

Lon’qu would not, did not reach for it. She had known that. 

“Sorry, that was in poor taste. Again, I must apologize—I’m at my wit’s end lately.”

“Are the palace beds too comfortable and the weather too pleasant?”

“You needn’t mock me at my time of emotional need. I kid—I’m truly spoiled by all the comforts around me.” The down feather beds and humming warmth of the coal braziers were welcomed luxuries. Best of all, the castle baths kept her soft and her hair sweet-smelling; nothing like the days, if not weeks, of travel and battle caked into her skin. But they could not quash the tedium of paperwork and court. To her own surprise, Robin admitted, “There’s a lot on my plate. It’s become tiring.”

The shouts and clashing weapons of training squires came through the unlatched windows. It brought her strange comfort, the familiarity of those warm sunny days during the campaign. Her shoulders sagged. It was not wise to yearn for times of war.

After a time, Lon’qu’s forehead grew slack and he spoke. “Regna Ferox welcomes your visit anytime. We”—he stopped himself—“the Khans would be glad to accommodate you.”

“Oh, would they, now? Do Flavia and Basilio intend to steal me away from Ylisse?” She bent in, elbows on the desk. A smirk creeped across her face as a frown took his.

“They would intend it as a diplomatic visit. You can run as many skirmish drills as you like with our fighters.”

“Hmph, I’m sensitive to the cold.”

“Even the ice succumbs to the summer sun.”

Cool winds through pine forests seemed like welcome relief from the summer swelter and pressures of Ylisse. She reclined against an armrest, propping up her chin. “I might take you up on that offer, then.”

Lon'qu shifted uneasily. Because of the chair, Robin hoped.

“So, a year gone and not a single visit to your old friends?”

“I did visit.” He rubbed at one of his knuckles. “Around the winter solstice.”

“Ah, I was away then.” Had Lon’qu come for pleasure or business? A faint recollection struck her. The Feroxi-Ylisse agreement had been drafted then. Of course, only orders could pry him from Basilio’s side. “Still, you show up without announcement and with little in hand.”

“Should I have brought a present?”

“Ten of your best Feroxi soldiers would’ve been very welcome. But one will do for now.” She gave him no opportunity to deflect the compliment, eyeing the wary cock of his head. “What have you been doing all this time?”

“Training.”

“In swordplay, and not the art of conversation, I presume.” 

“You would be correct,” he said dryly, but the tug at his lips betrayed his tone. He paused, as if waiting for her to bait him once again. There was only the anticipating raise of her eyebrows. Lon’qu crossed his arms. “There was an incident--a breach at the wall towards the east. An incursion of Risen entered Ferox.”

A breach? The stone border wasn’t impenetrable, but most of the Risen they had encountered were a far cry away from forces capable. “Surely, Raimi’s men made quick work of them. This was recent, I take it? I’ve heard no word of this.” An involuntary crease in her forehead spoke over the calmness in her words.

“I phrased that poorly,” he said with darkening eyes. “The earth had split open on our side. I saw it myself.” All of his limbs were intact, so she concluded the battle wasn’t worth questioning. "Flavia believes whatever force compels them is... spreading.” His hands tightened into fists. “...Miriel and Ricken have yet to find an explanation.”

“I was told they were sent to study how you raise vegetables. Risen are a far cry from cabbage and radishes.” Her lips formed a tight line. What else was Robin unaware of? Robin eased back with a jape before Lon’qu could sense the cold seeping through her body. “Will my mages return wielding axes? I’d hate to scrap my battle plans.” As if there was much use for them now **.**

“Ferox’s knowledge extends beyond the blade and bow. Not so much anymore, but it has been a stronghold of magic users for millenia.”

“Hm, you should consider working for Feroxi tourism. The sword is a waste of your talents.”

“This conversation is a waste of my time.”

She ignored him, pulling out the beaten journal from her coat. Feroxi magic warranted further explorations in the archives—all the ways Plegian, Feroxi, and Ylissean styles could be integrated sent her mind ablaze **.** Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Lon’qu peek at her scrawlings. How nosy of him.

With a snap of the journal, Robin asked, “Why don’t we head to the barracks? Vaike’s tasked to oil the armor today—he’d be another reason to make your stay all the more worthwhile.”

“I think not,” he huffed.

Still, he tailed her out the door. 

Robin had grown used to the lonely walks to the barracks from her study. Flanked by the stained glass and green banners of the hallways, and down the servants’ staircase. Then across the training yard, down more steps and past the greenery, and finally, towards the barracks. But now, a shadow accompanied her. Not that it made any difference, with how quiet he was, aside from the clicking of his blade against its sheathe. She wondered if she should break the silence, but a quick glance at him told her no. Lon’qu’s arms were rigid and his steps hurried. Behind every corner lurked the threat of a woman. To his luck, there had only been men—not that they passed by many at all. The clerics, gentry, nobles were elsewhere, biding their time before the castle broke out of its hibernation at Chrom’s return.

His comfort around the Shepherds was a measure of familiarity, Robin noted, as he didn’t mind the five paces separating them down the halls and across the fields.

But another man pulling him into a bone-crushing hug was overstepping every level of his tolerance. Vaike stood oblivious to the glare boring through his wild blond hair and into his cranium.

Already, Lon’qu looked like he was ready to pack up and flee to the north.

Bits of armor mid-grease surrounded them, forgotten by Vaike in his elation. Vaike released his embrace but kept a grip firm on Lon’qu’s shoulders. “I thought something happened to ya! You stopped replyin’ my letters, no updates, no nothin’. Vaike ain’t the type of guy who can take a loss of a friend like that!” Robin swore she saw tears in the creases of Vaike’s eyes.

Lon’qu wriggled free, looking like a grumpy eel. “You ended your last three letters begging for a private audience with Flavia. I’ve no patience for baseless demands **.** ” He tugged at his tunic, checking for remnants of Vaike’s dirty hands.

“Flavia?” Robin interjected, a laugh capping the end of the reigning Khan’s name.

Vaike’s eyes gleamed, as it did whenever he had some mad scheme for glory. “Think about it. I’m strong and handsome, she’s strong and beautiful. I’m blond, she’s blonde. It’s a perfect match, ain’t it? We’d be uniting our two nations together with two of the best warriors they have to offer.” He gestured towards Lon’qu. “And you’d be the one makin’ it all happen!”

Lon’qu remained unmoved. “If I did arrange a meeting between you two, I bear no responsibility for any bones she breaks.”

“So, you’ll do it?”

“No,” Lon’qu grunted.

“Come on, ya can’t play with Teach’s heart strings like that!”

“You’re the sole orchestrator of your foolish delusions.”

Vaike squinted. “...What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s an insult, idiot.”

“Now, _that_ I understand.” Vaike cocked his head towards the barracks door. “No point in talking this out. Why don’t we take this to the field outside?”

“Enough.” Robin had grown weary of their playing. She turned to Lon’qu, watching his eyes ignite at Vaike’s invitation. “Let’s get you settled before Vaike rips a hole in your bags and reveals some embarrassing secret.”

“I’ve nothing to hide,” Lon’qu said, but he snatched up his bag. He strode past them and headed toward the rooms. A door creaked and shut. “So many empty beds,” Lon'qu remarked when he returned to the common space. Vaike sat back on the floor, working on a pauldron. Robin had started picking through the bookshelf's meager offerings.

“Yup. You know about Miriel and Ricken. Uh…” Vaike scratched the back of his head and squinted upwards. “Oh yeah, then Gaius is doing somethin’ somewhere... Wish I could tell you more. See, I don’t really keep up with everyone’s whereabouts nowadays. Not ‘cause Teach doesn’t care about his pals, but everyone’s got their own thing goin’.” He went back to working an oiled cloth into nooks and crannies.

“Between the Shepherds at the Northroad garrison and those elsewhere, there’s only Vaike, Tharja, and Nowi here,” she said, running a finger through the thick layer of dust on the remaining books. Amongst them, there was a twenty-year old tome on the regulation of ale and another titled _How to Get Over Him in a Fortnight_. Looks like the owner indeed did get over him—or maybe they had learned to live with it, Robin mused.

“A name’s a-missin’. But considering how little you actually spend in your quarters, I guess it’s easy to forget yourself.”

Her cheeks grew warm; she despised people keeping track of her comings and goings. That was _her_ job. “It’s not as if you don’t disappear in the taverns for days,” she said too sharply. Lon’qu threw a sidelong glance at her irritation.

Vaike grinned and waved a greasy hand. “No need to get worked up, Robin. I’m just teasing, is all. It’s just I don’t hardly ever see you ‘cause you’re all cooped up in that office.”

Eager to end the conversation, Robin hurried towards the door. “Speaking of which, there’s some errands for me to attend to. I’ll leave you two to your sparring.” She managed a civil tone, directing bitterness inwards. With a tight grip on the handle, she added, “And welcome back, Lon’qu.”

“I’ll be sure to keep our guest on his toes.” Vaike’s laughter followed her out across her lonesome walk to the castle.

Robin hit the stairs, two steps at a time.

Anger had come over her, cracking inside her like branches underfoot. Vaike pinpointed something she had been denying for some time. He’d done it unwittingly, too—all the more aggravating. Out of the mouth of fools, she supposed.

He reminded her that she had been left behind. The other Shepherds had forged new lives for themselves out of rubble. There were homes to return to, newly granted titles and honors, aspirations interrupted by war. Even Vaike, Tharja, and Nowi had found new homes in the capital.

But there was little occupying her time aside from paperwork. In the beginning, there had been missions she eagerly tasked herself to draft up strategies for. But that trickled to a still. Shepherds far-off had begun handling those skirmishes themselves. Now her talents were elsewhere—behind a desk and wasting away on matters that would bear no fruit.

Her study door opened with its familiar creak. Robin welcomed the smell of parchment and inks.

She should not complain. Being on Chrom’s privy council was no small honor. But over a year had passed since her appointment and she was treading water. One mistimed breath and she would drown.

Already things were slipping out the wayside. Robin hadn’t yet responded to a port town’s request for aid in easing the tensions between the butcher and cook guilds. And Virion’s whereabouts still eluded her. It had been months and not a trace of that peacock of a man.

Little wonder no one thought to tell her of Miriel and Rickon’s true intentions in Ferox.

She slumped into her chair. Had Chrom discovered that her knowledge of the battlefield only helped so much in politicking? And if not yet, when?

Robin was misplaced, an unwieldy tool. It was just a matter of time until she was left to rust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that imposter syndrome do be vibin tho (Robin's dialogue in Aversa's paralogue is mwah chef's kiss~)


	2. Count to Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin gives Lon'qu some bad news; someone makes threats; Lon'qu gets thinking about Ferox.

Lon’qu’s day began with a note. It was crumpled, forced through the thin gap below his door. The writing was in worse shambles. It looked as if it was done in a single hastened breath, punctuation left to the wayside. He pieced together what he could. Robin asked to meet—the reason, time, and place had been strangled by a heavy hand.

Only silence answered his knocking at her quarters, so he began the slow ascent to the castle. Every step brought out the pain in his ribs, courtesy of Vaike’s axe-handle. It was a welcome ache, proof that Vaike hadn’t spent all his newfound time chasing liquor down with women.

A bell struck, breaking the hush of the grounds seven times.

The castle was barren of the shiny-toothed greetings he dreaded upon his return here. There was only the occasional monk or servant, who paid Lon’qu no mind. Above, pegasus knights glinted like dragonflies. They landed on the flat tops of towers before taking off towards the Northroad. Lon’qu envied them, longing to return north and to its bustle.

Lon’qu had only ever known Ferox’s capital as a feverish pulse. Night or day, men bled in and out of its walls, itching to train or to drink themselves into a fury. The clamor of clashing steel and laughter accompanied a Feroxi warrior from the moment they woke till they lay to sleep. Lon’qu had long grown to abide the noise. He was thankful for it, even. When he stirred in the night, panicked and slick with sweat, the din dulled his racing thoughts, lulling him back to sleep.

But, despite Vaike’s best efforts, Ylisstol welcomed Lon’qu quietly. Silence sank into the rushes and creeped across the training fields. It had taken hold of the barracks. Those empty rooms were marked by dusty outlines of where belongings once sat. Silence meant that people had left, to continue their lives, unperturbed by threats. There were crops to plant, manor estates to tend to, families to hug and kiss. A time of celebration and peace.

This was only a brief pause, Lon’qu knew. It left him uneasy, more aware of the burden that grew heavy against his chest.

The Feroxi-Ylisse treaty was mere pretext. In truth, omens from the west grew more real by the day. Letters could be intercepted, so Lon’qu had been sent to relay the Khans’ warnings in-person. He would be back by mid-summer, Chrom had promised in his last letter to Flavia. Yet the prince was still at the other end of the continent. Just when would he return?

Lon’qu had been unable to ask before Robin bolted from the barracks with a clenched jaw and furrowed brow. That had been four days ago.

He had been wary to hunt Robin down since. He was struck by that newfound, nervous energy about her, how it crackled and flared at innocent words.

There was another cause for his apprehension—Miriel and Ricken’s task in Ferox had been a revelation to her. Quips could not conceal the way icy shock cast down Robin’s face. 

He, too, had been taken aback.

Chrom and Robin had always been side-by-side during meals, councils, the fleeting winks of rest. Their heads bent over maps, the way they conspired with murmured tones—it looked as if they were trying to meld their brains together, to form a complete whole. There seemed to be nothing that could shake their confidence in each other during the war. Now, to think Chrom had left her unaware of his aims for the two mages…

The prince wouldn’t do that without cause. Lon’qu could make no allusions of the Khans’ worries to her—there were bound to be other matters she wasn’t privy to and he did not desire to shine light on them.

It made approaching Robin fraught with difficulty. An ill-timed word would cause more trouble than he could handle.

But now she had summoned him.

His knocking did not pry her out of her study. An impatience ate at him; the sooner Lon’qu fulfilled his duties, the sooner he could return to Ferox. But he did not want to barge in, to catch her dabbing sleep out of her eyes. His ears grew red at the thought.

A passing servant made a stop, a basket of laundry in her arms. “Miss Robin takes her breakfast at this time, sir,” she said with a daintiness that made his stomach churn.

Lon’qu met her smile with a scowl. He felt caught in a misdeed, outside Robin’s door waiting eagerly like a hound. “I’m no ‘sir’,” Lon’qu said, too hasty and too cutting. Her eyes widened. “Thank you,” he added as an apology but her warmth had long vanished. She hurried down the hall without a glance back. It would not be long till the other servants were warned of the ill-tempered foreign man. He could not blame her.

Robin was in the dining hall, absentmindedly working away at some porridge. She had a book propped up on the table. Lon’qu approached unnoticed, her eyes lost in a dizzying stagger across pages.

“Robin,” he said, dragging her out from the rapture of her reading.

She looked up at him with faint surprise. “You’re rather early. I wrote ‘three past noon’.”

“I couldn’t read your handwriting.”

“Hah, you wouldn’t be the first,” Robin said sheepishly.

Lon’qu paused, unsure of how to broach the subject of Chrom’s return. Robin’s smile was a stark surprise to how he had last seen her. Something had roused her ire then, casting her face with irritation. Now she was all ease, although fatigue rimmed her eyes. But Lon’qu knew better than to find smiles reliable.

Robin spoke, taking advantage of his hesitation. “Come, sit down. There’s a pressing matter to discuss.”

He sat across her, his hands clamped on his knees. The unspoken question tingled like an unpleasant itch, but Lon’qu set it aside for now.

There were few others—two gossiping squires and a rheumy-eyed priest—taking their morning meal. Regardless, Robin leaned in with a voice dropped low. “Word of your visit has reached a few nobles. No doubt they’ll send out summons within a few days.”

Lon’qu could not help but frown. It seemed futile to hold talks in absence of its ruler. “What do they intend?”

“To air out their complaints. Without Chrom present, they’re free to pick apart the agreement without softening their words. An exercise of the tongue, if you will.” 

“I see.” His grimace deepened with realization. “I take it I will be representing Regna Ferox,” Lon’qu surmised darkly. He had not expected a horde of interrogators to welcome him.

“There’s nothing to worry about. They raised little objection the last time you came as an envoy, didn’t they?” She ate a spoonful of that beige sludge.

“...You’re mistaken.”

Robin coughed on her porridge. It took her a moment to recover. She spoke hurriedly, tinged with hoarseness,“What do you mean? Last winter, when they had drafted the agreement—isn’t that why you were here?” 

She had been absent from the capital then, he remembered, thinking of that empty chair in the council chambers. 

“I was no envoy. I came only as escort to a Feroxi orator,” he said, crossing his arms tight. The Khans had asked him to make this visit a discreet one, yet he would soon be embroiled in politics.

Even with his ignorance of Ylissean court, Lon’qu knew that the right amount of pressure could dissolve the countries’ partnership. A ruler could not ignore uproar from his vassals. Moreso if those vassals were still mangled from a war led by his father.

And for Lon’qu to speak for the Khans… The notion sent his gut plummeting. Lon’qu did not like to bend and twist his tongue in cunning ways, to flatter and curry favor. He saw the way the Feroxi orator had the nobles eagerly lean near to better hear his sweet pleasantries. How quickly that same man slandered them afterwards—“You can tell Ylissean manhoods are small by the way that noblewoman talks; only an unsatisfied woman speaks so heartlessly,” he had said with an ugly and crass laugh. Even in Ferox, where blunted words carried one far, one could not garner support or finances without an equal share of honeyed ones.

Basilio had a golden tongue that had no need for deception. There was a magic to the way he could cast a net of boisterous tales and pointed jests; always truthful, yet never cruel. He softened the foulest tempers and coaxed warmth from a stone. More than once, Basilio had talked himself out of a dagger pointed to his back. And all too often—to Lon’qu’s frustration—Basilio invited those same enemies to drink with him later.

Lon’qu did not share that ease. His back flush against a wall with a vantage view of council proceedings—that’s where Lon’qu excelled. Quiet and unnoticed.

This Robin knew as well. 

“This may be more serious than I anticipated,” she said, hand to her temple. “If we don’t quell their grievances here, they’ll only grow more stubborn. And other houses will follow suit… Chrom would have an uphill battle when he returns. Who knows how long it could be before we could proceed with even the simplest aims of the agreement.”

She stirred her food, preoccupied with worry. He could almost hear the thoughts rattle against her skull, threatening to burst out right there in the dining hall. Even off the battlefield, Robin’s mind worked tediously to strategize.

With a start, Robin raised her head resolutely. “There’s a few angles they could come at you with. House Hadrian is bound to bring up the Longfort.”

He nodded firmly in agreement.

There was none in Ferox who could not recount the Great Siege.

The Longfort had been the pride of the Hadrians, built to protect Ylisse from the Feroxi. And for nearly a hundred years, it had. But Diades the She-wolf needed only a night to undo that. Siege towers had been constructed, hidden from Ylissean eyes, and then carried to the eastern portions of the fort by sea. There, Hadrian guards had flocked like moths to a light. In that moment of distraction, Diades led a small force to the unguarded west, to victory.

Centuries had passed since, yet House Hadrian still licked at their wounds bitterly. How humiliating it must be to have your family seat taken by the very barbarians it was supposed to keep out, Lon’qu mused. To know those usurpers celebrate it every year surely stung like salt.

Robin continued, “There’s also going to be worry about Feroxi imports encroaching on Ylissean business. And to be frank, many still don’t trust you. The Feroxi, I mean. A year of peace cannot mend all those many more years of misgivings.”

“We are well aware.”

She grew silent for a moment, letting more theories bubble up. “If you would like, I could draft up some notes for you; positions they might take and ways we could refute.”

“There is no need,” he said. He did not wish to burden Robin. From the looks of her study there was already enough on her plate.

Robin looked unconvinced. “You’ve best prepare yourself. This isn’t some matter you can settle with a blade.” She jabbed the spoon his way for emphasis. Porridge plopped onto the book and was followed by a groan. She hastily dug through an inner pocket for a handkerchief.

Lon’qu let his arms drop, amused by the swears—there was something about “those damned monks” in her muttering—and panicked cleaning.

But duty re-emerged at the forefront of his mind. He must ask about Chrom; the brewing turmoil from the west was greater danger than nobles’ pointed complaints. He clenched one hand in the other, a thumb rolling against the peaks of his knuckles. As she scraped the last of the muck away, he began, “Robin—”

“Ah, Robin, there you are,” another interrupted from behind him. 

Warmth fled from his body. 

A woman’s voice.

It seized Lon’qu by the throat. He grit his teeth and forced his writhing brain to concentrate on an inhale. _One_ , _two_ , _three_ , _four_ , _five_. He exhaled and began counting again.

Then a grim-faced mage creeped into the corner of his vision.

“Oh, it’s the swordsman,” Tharja said. She observed Lon’qu with a disinterest. “Hmm… You don’t look too good.” The clamp on his lungs slackened, but he continued to tally his strangled breathing.

Robin, too, was watching him, although he was too strained to gauge the emotion behind her widened eyes. “A warning would've been appreciated,” Robin said, gracing Lon’qu time to collect himself.

“I would’ve, but it’s tricky recognizing him from the back—you can’t see that scowl of his.” She turned to him, one hand on her hip and a woven satchel in the other. “If you’re here to make me collect more bat wings for another fruitless endeavor, I’m going to hex your swordhand to make rude gestures. Permanently.”

“Be nice, Tharja—wait till he can actually respond before you start with the threats,” Robin said.

“Fine. Only because _you_ asked.” Tharja’s bag hit the tabletop with the thwump and crunch of dried leaves.

“What”—Robin gestured with the jut of her chin—“is that?”

“Herbs.” Tharja slid beside Robin, her billowing cloak silent as an owl taking flight. “Mages in the Plegian quarter are having difficulties finding proper substitutes. The earth here is too fertile. Plants and animals grow fat and soft.” Her voice dropped to a mumble and her shoulders gathered tight. “...As do the people themselves.” She sniffed and began with a sigh. “As you can imagine, we lack ingredients with the proper bite that our potions call for.”

The power vacuum in Plegia after Gangrel’s death had sent Plegians—fearful of the instability and the grip of the Grimleal—fleeing to the north and to the east. Ferox welcomed them, always happy to add new weapons to its arsenal.

But Ylisse was smaller, more war-torn, more prone to exclusion.

Disbelief roused Lon’qu from his silence. “...A Plegian quarter? I did not imagine Ylisse being so... receptive.” It ached to speak, his body still wound tight.

“Ylisseans are very much _not_ receptive,” Robin said with a bleak smile.

“To put it mildly. And now I’ve been asked to ‘ease the transition’ and ‘bridge the gap’,” Tharja said in a lilt. It would’ve been playful if it weren’t for the disdained curl of her lip. “As if I’m some nurturing earth mother instead of a practitioner of the dark arts. Forget hexes and spells, I’m here to get everyone to hold hands and sing songs by the fire.”

Lon’qu suppressed a harsh bark of a laugh.

The irony was not lost on him: this was someone who had freely offered to ease him from torment, who lent a patient ear to hours of his painful recollection. Aiding others was all out of her own volition—her will was too strong otherwise.

Irritated by her feigned callousness (and how his breath still caught in his throat), Lon’qu said, “You’ve found a hobby beyond pickling toads. Most would call that an improvement.”

“Okay, first, pickling toads is a waste. You either use them fresh or fermented. Secondly, if Robin wasn’t here…”

“It takes more than a scrawny twig tossing newts and weeds into a pot to frighten me.”

“Tossing?” Tharja loomed forward with a threatening finger. “Dark magic is an art dependent on precise measuring and handling of ingredients. You can’t just _toss_ things.”

At once, Robin cut in, throwing a mischievous glance at Lon’qu. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve described baking.”

Tharja’s gaze narrowed. “I didn’t realize I’d be leaving kin for the fangs of conspiring snakes.”

“Come now, you’re with friends here,” Robin soothed although her eyes crinkled with laughter. She scooted from her seat. “Look, I’ll get breakfast for you both—empty stomachs make surly minds.” 

“No porridge,” Lon’qu said quickly.

“Noted. You, Tharja?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to accompany you?” Tharja tilted her head up at Robin expectantly.

“No, it’s best I let you two catch up,” Robin insisted, waving her hands. 

“Then just get me whatever.”

Tharja pouted, craning her neck around to watch Robin leave. Only when Robin turned the corner towards the kitchens, did Tharja look back at him. “Sorry about earlier,” she said simply.

Lon’qu said nothing.

Tharja snatched up Robin’s book brazingly. She flipped through it. Concern pulled at the edge of her mouth. “Hmph, Robin’s only read fifty pages of that in the past week. And it’s not even one of the denser books she’s juggling. How worrying,” Tharja said, as she shimmied the book back into place.

Tallying Robin’s reading would have been disturbing behavior from anyone else. But from Tharja, it was benign. The way she had talked irritably about Ylisse was more troubling. He thought of the Plegians in Ferox, the way the blazing deserts could not prepare them for the cold. Even as the ice retreated in the summer, they remained bundled up with forlorn faces.

“...How have you fared in Ylisse?” Lon’qu asked frankly. 

She stiffened under his scrutiny. “Well, if you really must know, I’ve been feeling quite… homesick.”

“Have any of your family come?”

“And abandon their homes?” Tharja laughed, though it sounded more menacing than any other he had heard. “Never. Not even the Grimleal can tear them from all those tomes passed down through our family history. But they write regularly. When postage can make it through, anyway.”

“I’m glad of the good news.”

“You don’t look it. But thanks, I guess.”

Silence bubbled between them, save for the tapping of Tharja’s nails. Tharja rapped on the table, impatiently waiting for Robin to return. But she began to speak again.

“...Lon’qu, does it ever get better?” She said slowly, taken by an uncharacteristic vulnerability. “...Missing all the places, and faces,”—her eyes darted to Robin’s breakfast—“all the meals you knew?”

Already, he wanted to rid himself of this conversation. Lon’qu grunted, “Ferox is not so far away.”

“Stop playing dumb. I’m talking about Chon’sin.”

Even through her stilted pronunciation, that name sent a rigor down his spine. He had long driven himself away from the west. Even those in Ferox did not allude to his past now. He hadn’t spoken of it to any Shepherd but Tharja.

His legs twitched, eager to stand. But it would have been cruel to leave Tharja’s anxieties unheeded, when Lon’qu knew those same pangs of longing and sorrow.

Ferox had overwhelmed him: the heaviness of its food, the awkward way the language sat in his mouth, and the loudness of its people. When icy winds seared his skin. When he could no longer feel his limbs from overwork. When bread cut the inside of his cheeks with its foreign, stale crust. In those moments, he regretted tearlessly having crossed the sea and leaving the slums behind. It had been futile. The nightmares and loathing had continued to follow him from Chon’sin.

The memories came easy to him but how distant that bitter disappointment felt. He should rather break his hands than return back to his birthplace now.

“Time softens the ache,” Lon’qu said. He clenched his fists. “And though they won’t replace old ones, you will find new attachments.”

“You sure? I’ve been here a year and yet I still have my doubts. My devotion to Robin is unshakeable, truly, but it can’t replace my parents or the sunsets across the dunes. It certainly can’t replace my aunt’s cooking.”

“What of the Plegians here? Do they not offer you any comfort?”

“Blah, they’re okay. I much prefer the Shepherds—you guys are weirdly open to being experimented on. And they’re always asking me to run errands for them…” Tharja bit at her thumb pensively. “But I suppose they’ve got styles of dark arts from all corners of the country assembled together—I’ve learned more magic assisting them in the past few months than in all my time in the Plegian army. Plus the army never paid me with my favorite desserts…” A joy (though, if Lon’qu was being honest, it looked more like wickedness) lit her face. “Hm, you’ve given me much to consider.”

“I only said a few words. Make of them what you will.”

“Well, thanks anyway. Gods, how weird it is saying that to you twice,” Tharja muttered. She untied her bag, pulled out some leaves, and lined them up to compare their shape and size. She had grown weary of talking about sentimentalities. But she looked up at him once more and said, “But hey, Lon’qu? If you mention this conversation to anyone, I’ll practice one of my new spells on you.”

He nodded gravely. Lon’qu did not want to imagine what new ways the mage could contort and twist his body or whatever nightmarish creatures she could turn him into now.

Instead he thought again of those faraway moments, when Ferox had once sown doubt deep inside.

Lon’qu could no longer stay in his hometown. It had only brought him wordless grief. He moved village to village, yet the distance never seemed enough. So he looked to the vastness of the sea to take him from his despair. Tales of a warrior nation that welcomed outsiders, so long they bound themselves to Ferox’s blade, took him eastward. There, he could become strong.

It took him months to earn money for passage, committing acts that he looked at now with resignation. Among these, he fought other hungry children, entertaining the rich men who came to their narrow streets and threw coppers at them. It had not felt disgraceful then, though, when every act had been out of a mute and frantic desperation.

Lon’qu only felt shame when he came to Ferox and his starved limbs hit the other boys’ sturdy bodies meaninglessly. The scuffles in the streets proved inadequate in a land where swords and axes were the first gifts bestowed to children.

The first year had been grueling.

He had made the long trek to Ferox’s capital, Felia, and found work in the castle scullery. His hands cracked and bled from the work, and the pain grew unbearable when the blood froze in the frigid air. Loneliness made it no less easier to bear. Lon’qu had been a scrawny boy from a peculiar land, made stranger by a humiliating, rattling fear of women. None of that endeared him to anyone. It only provoked them to mock.

Ferox kept him at arm’s length. Lon’qu hadn’t yet earned its trust, hadn’t been granted a weapon nor any training. His purpose in Ferox faded as he toiled elbow-deep in dishwater and thought dry-eyed about his home. The mild winters, the cicadas and the grasshoppers that walked across his fingers, how he once did not tremble in the presence of a girl. That was all gone now.

But his first winter in Ferox, he witnessed the celebration of the Great Siege of the Longfort. Everyone, young or old, partook in building imitations of Diade’s legendary siege towers. They feasted and slept in the shadows of the belfries. At nightfall, the completed towers were lit aflame. This was always a clumsy, dangerous affair. People, drunk or caught up in the swell of revelry, would forget the boundaries of their bodies and stand too close to the flames. Sometimes, the precarious structures would fold inwards and collapse onto buildings or, worse, crowds.

But no risk could dissuade Feroxi tradition. It honored the souls of the dead and gave them light for their passage into the realm of the gods.

It made no difference to Lon’qu. He had grown weary of symbols and rituals, of the gods who granted him no hope or respite. The burning seemed merely mindless to him then. All that work only to be turned to ash, the chaos of the crowds, the way they erupted into whoops and hollers once the towers had been lit—it was infuriating.

Then he saw the great pillars of fire licking at the black starless sky. It was like nothing he had seen before. It looked as if the sun had descended from the heavens and split itself into two. The sight drew him close, away from the edge of the yard and into the mass of bodies. The radiating warmth of the fire and people around him cascaded through the cold, through the hardened shell of his soul. He forgot the bite of the winter air. People drew lines of soot across each other’s faces. They flung their arms on each other's shoulders. The chanting of the hundreds, maybe thousands, reverberated through his body like an earthquake.

Lon’qu got swept into a group of men, who cheered at the sight of him.

“Aye, the Chon’sin boy!” one had said.

“Nothing to worry about, none of us wear skirts,” another said, his smile broken up by missing teeth. He took a wide thumb and made wide streaks of ash across Lon’qu’s forehead and cheeks. “Come, a good song will knock the gloom out of you!”

The men linked arms with Lon’qu and they joined the crowd in its slow circle around the burning towers. Lon’qu did not sing with them—the words both unknown and still foreign to him—but their singing thrummed through his chest. The crowd sang of famed warriors, Feroxi and of other nations. They recited war chants, passed down the centuries. They stamped their feet in rhythm of one unified heartbeat.

All of Ferox that night was surely celebrating alongside them. Lon’qu felt it. An entire country and its history swelled through his body, and there, that was the moment Ferox had embraced him. He embraced it back.

Lon’qu felt a small flame of embarrassment just then. He had been caught in the act of unspooling memories with such mawkishness, when he realized that Robin had been watching him and Tharja for some time. But then his ears grew red at how illogical that thought was. She could not read his mind.

Robin stood at the entrance of the hall, a plate of eggs and bread in each hand. Whatever levity she had before was replaced by a sullenness.

But then Robin felt the weight of his eyes. A smile painted itself on and she rejoined them with hastened steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, finally! Really struggled with this.
> 
> Also, man, I went to double-check to see if it was Tharja or Cherche's support that Lon'qu talks about being from Chon'sin, but he doesn't. And then I checked out all his other support chains, including the DLC ones, and he just... never mentions it. As far as I'm aware, he explicitly never refers to Chon'sin? Reminds me of a certain 3H character, hmm...
> 
> Next one is likely gonna be shorter (and hopefully less world-building for everyone's sake).


	3. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin runs herself ragged with her thoughts.

Everything tasted like metal. That was bearable. The sun stinging her eyes was bearable, too. As was the sweat clinging to her forehead. But after enough laps, the piercing in her side was not. Robin stooped over, back heaving as her lungs struggled for air. Each breath felt like an oyster-knife prying her ribs apart. Gods, how she hated running—cavalry had the right idea about clambering up on a horse and letting beasts do the work for them.

With hands on her knees, Robin took a look around the yard. A few knights milled among the stone weights, chattering in tune with the songbirds.

She knew most of the castle knights by name, all by sight. Their barracks were removed from the Shepherds’—they were housed in newer, bigger quarters. Closer to the castle, too, Robin bitterly thought. They were spared from that long uphill walk. With their ties to noble houses and gentry, it was to be expected.

The knights were pleasant enough. They would greet her in the hallways or make small talk over supper. Time to time, some invited her to train. But a coolness was never far from their eyes. They did not take well to her. Or the other Shepherds for that matter. To many, the militia had been a plaything for a bored, restless prince. A pet project bestowed upon him by Emmeryn. True, they had thwarted Gangrel’s dire reign; but to elevate them—a lowly mixture of commoners and landless knights and foreign swords—to the same level as the royal guard? Preposterous. Yet Chrom, now monarch in everything but title, had those Shepherds by his side and sitting at privy council.

Robin strained to catch a sour word from those knights. Perhaps a crude joke about the strange circumstances of her appointment. Or some discontent at playing guard-dog to an empty castle.

Then one of them—a freckled woman from a southern family—caught Robin’s glance. Robin froze. But the knight only waved heartily. The others followed, all with smiles. Robin returned their friendly hellos with a twinge of guilt. There she was again, letting her mind err on its persistent course to wring shadows out of light.

In a bid to distract herself, Robin turned her eyes on Lon’qu.

Lon’qu came to the training yard with a singular focus. He had passed by and given her nothing but a solemn nod. A disappointing dismissal—she had hoped he would offer to test her fencing, even if it meant a tongue-lashing about sloppy form. Bureaucratic duties no longer afforded her the time to train as she once did. She felt it in the slackening of her muscles, the way magic took a quicker toll on her stamina.

Lon’qu wasted no time since the war ended. She had seen the deft way his feet cut across the dirt as she made her own laborious circuits around the yard. How his sword snaked in and out through the air as he went through flow drills. Soon enough, Robin could hardly distinguish where the man ended and where the blade began.

As Robin caught her breath, Lon’qu had come to a stop in front of the training posts. Some had been padded with hay and burlap, while others were rung with wooden arms. He chose one with a face stitched on its false head. It had the same persistent downturned mouth as Lon’qu.

For a time, it looked as if his wooden sword had gotten stuck to his belt, the way Lon’qu kept a hand on the pommel without the notion to move. But then in one whip-like gesture of his arm, the pell shook under the percussive strikes of Lon’qu’s blade. He stepped back into position. The post waited for its next beating. Again and again, he went at it.

On the next strike, there was a vicious crackle. The sword splintered in two. Pieces of wood sat around his feet. The padded dummy’s frown looked contemptful now.

“I don’t need your help,” Lon’qu huffed when he saw Robin approaching. Sweat beaded his brow.

He squatted on the ground, the tail of his coat trailing behind him and growing dirty. She had never known what to make of his choice in clothing, the incongruity of it against his subdued manner. That long tunic, all those layers peeking out from his collar, that sash around his waist that somehow never unravelled amidst battle—it all looked so... _complicated_.

“You say that, but you don’t know how diligent Frederick’s gotten about keeping the training yard tidy. A single misplaced stone and he’ll have everyone scrubbing the grout between every brick of the castle.” Robin waggled her fingers at him with a grin. “None of us will have any fingers left to hold a blade or lance.”

He gave a skeptical look, but it wasn’t a reprimanding one. So, she kneeled down and helped him clear the ground, minding the distance between them. The last thing she wanted to do was watch his face grow pale as it did yesterday.

The breeze carried lively talks of the knights their way. One recounted a scene from a popular play—a comedy about a priest with threadbare morals—to laughs. Another complained about his commander’s abrupt sternness (Robin gathered a courtship gone sour was the cause).

A quiet envy struck Robin. Chatting while training and doing chores had been a point of camaraderie among the Shepherds. Yet Lon’qu only brooded beside her. It was no different from their early days on the campaign, where doubtless most of his waking hours were training alone.

But that was so long ago, Robin thought. All the passed time made his silence all the more pronounced. Yes, Lon’qu was a quiet man, but it’s not like they were _strangers_. Something was ill at ease with him.

Perhaps she should ask about Olivia—it had been a while since she had gotten a letter from her. Or of how Miriel and Ricken were getting along with their Feroxi associates. Though she doubted Lon’qu was eager to talk, he would be obligated to tell her about their former colleagues. A begrudging word or two from him could hint at whatever plagued him.

“Lon’qu—”

“Have you any word of the summit?” Lon’qu said, somehow catching wind of the conversation starters she had been mulling over.

Robin pursed her lips. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. There’ll be a letter of summons at your door tomorrow.” She swept her wood chips into a pile at her knees.“But I suppose I can break the bad news to you ahead of then.”

He said nothing but his head tilted up.

“They intend to hold it in eight days’ time,” Robin dutily said.

Before Lon’qu bent towards the ground again, a cross expression darkened his face. Robin looked at the black crown of hair and wondered if resentment grew beneath. He had only come here to drop off documents and make sure they were signed. But by the time of the talks with the nobles, Lon’qu would be in Ylisse for nearly two weeks. Undoubtedly he was ticking off the days till he could run back north.

A part of Robin felt sorry for him. But another was thoroughly annoyed—Lon’qu was so eager to leave and free himself of her and the other Shepherds. As if they were some bur caught on his pants.

If he was going to be that way, she would at least cajole him into speaking with her. It would be a minor victory she could hold over him.

She spoke again, quickly so he could not interrupt, “Do you remember our sparring during the war?” He had been easy—well, for his standards—to talk to on the matters of fighting. She hoped it would loosen his tongue again.

“You pelted figs at me,” he said dourly as if a bruise still ached him.

“Yes, I suppose that _is_ hard to forget.” Robin shook off an embarrassed smile. “I mean the talks we had about your swordsmanship—the Feroxi style, our own goals.”

“...What are you getting at?”

“Watching you train just now; it made me think of something I never thought to ask then.” 

He did not look up at her, but he stopped picking at the slivers of wood.

“Why the sword? ...As in why do your ambitions lie with the sword? And not say, a spear? Easier to make, longer reach, more valuable in group formations. Martial knowledge favors the lance over the sword nearly every time.” Robin hesitated, thinking, unsure if she should dare summon the Khan’s name. She forged on, too deep into the question to back out now. “Or perhaps the axe? Basilio favors it, and it cleaves through armor in a way the most unwieldy long sword can only hope. So, what is it about the sword for you?”

Gathering the remaining littered fragments into a broad hand, Lon’qu went silent. Either mustering up some answer, or thoroughly opposed to deigning her with one. She was never quite sure with him.

He stood abruptly. Splotches of dirt circled the knees of his pants. Finally, Lon’qu said, “It’s not so easy to have a lance or axe by one’s side when one sleeps.” Then he walked off to dispose of his piecemealed sword, his angular figure receding in the distance.

Robin remained crouched, completely befuddled.

She had given him a softball question, nothing that dug deep—Lon’qu could have simply said swordplay was a more complicated art, worthy of striving for perfection, or it just felt like a natural fit. Those were the responses she heard when she asked soldiers about their preferences; it helped to know when she outfitted the Shepherds.

Instead Lon’qu eluded her with a non-answer, one simultaneously revealing but infuriatingly inconclusive.

It wasn’t uncommon to have a blade by your bedside. Moreso on the road. But he sounded as if he kept the habit up now at Ylisstol, even in Felia. Was he really so fearful among allies, his home? Why make this sort of private admission to her? She pictured him in his quarters, night after night, clutching onto his sword how a child might with a doll.

A sword as his bedfellow... Perhaps he meant it as some crass joke, similar to the ones Sully and Gaius were fond of. No, that wasn’t like him. She had never caught Lon’qu joining in with the bawdry songs—ones that turned Ricken’s entire face red—on the march. Not even with a tap of his foot. With all that energy devoted to ceaselessly swinging around a weapon, there couldn’t be any left to devote to bodily passions.

A sharp pain curtailed her thoughts. Thoughts that seemed cruel now; vulgar and invasive, too. 

She unclenched her hands, unaware they had curled into fists, and looked down. Robin frowned. There, in her right index finger, a splinter had wedged itself deep.

In her irritation, Robin abandoned her exercise and went to wash up and change. Lon’qu had reappeared with a fresh sword, now flocked by those knights—all looking to glean something of his technique—when Robin made her way back to her study. If he gestured a good-bye, she didn’t notice. Her finger stung as she took lunch. She had made half-moons indentions all around the splinter, yet it refused to come out.

It tormented her to the tail-end of the day, where Robin sat in the castle library. Across from Robin, Tharja worked through a stack of books, all on Ylissean plants. They frequented here, rooting through the archives like the silverfish that called it home. The grimoires beckoned Tharja, while Robin consulted manuscripts and records. Once Robin could leisurely spend hours here poring over a commander’s account of a campaign. Now too much time was spent rummaging through texts to find out who owned what or who owed who.

Today’s question was who _was_ who.

That issue of southern clashing butchers and cooks remained unresolved—her response lay half-written on the library table—so Robin combed through ordinances. It was a futile attempt to understand the surprising fine line dividing the two guilds. Instead, she kept stumbling on clauses that went back and forth on bakers. Some years there were multiple guilds. Other years, distinction was ignored and they were folded into one. Between this and that damned wheat tariff that still lurked in her office, Robin had grown sick of bread.

Her tired eyes drifted off a paragraph and onto the inkiness of Tharja’s hair. As interesting as guild politics were, she’d been meaning to ask what oils Tharja used to keep her hair so sleek. But then her gaze slipped lower, to the sheer fabric hugging the woman’s curves. Townspeople had gawked at Tharja when she slinked into the capital, fresh off the Shepherds’ return from Plegia. As she and other Plegians became more commonplace, that shock and intrigue diminished. But here and there, there were still those who tripped over themselves at the sight.

Lon’qu made no such reaction to Tharja yesterday, aside from that initial fear. Strange—one would think a man frightened of women would be frozen at the sight of one dressed so bare. Instead, they talked easily, with Lon’qu even biting back. He was _friendly_. Friendlier with Tharja than he had been with Robin, truthfully. It stupefied Robin, as she watched them converse without her. Lon’qu even seemed to withdraw from them entirely once Robin rejoined them.

Tharja had only been with the Shepherds for a mere month before Lon’qu left the Shepherds to rejoin the Feroxi army’s march home. In spite of that short time, they—the two prickliest, most buttoned-up soldiers in the army—became friends.

“I’m surprised you two get along so well.” The words slipped out and all Robin could do was hold back a grimace at her own mistake.

Tharja peeled her eyes from her reading, meeting Robin with a dubious look. “What do you mean?”

“Considering his… issues and your, er…” The gauzy clothing caught Robin’s attention again and made her cheeks warm. Tharja would have her coughing up newts for the next week if she knew Robin had been eyeing her up. She concluded, “You know, that intimidating aura of yours.”

“Oh, you mean Lon’qu and I. What can I say? The man’s a bit of a chatterbox, really,” Tharja said, reaching for another book and flipping through it without meeting Robin’s eyes. The nonchalant avoidance only whetted Robin’s curiosity.

“You don’t suppose you’d have any tips for me, then? Getting him to talk is like squeezing water from a rock.”

Tharja shrugged. “People come to me when they need an ear. As if I particularly care about their sniveling issues. But I oblige them.”

“You mean to say Lon’qu came to you?” Robin’s bafflement could not be contained no longer. Her voice rose above the dusty bookshelves. A nearby cleric threw a nasty glare their way.

“What of it?”

“Er, nothing. It’s just…” Robin faltered under Tharja’s suspicion, growing aware of her own prying questions. She set down her book, removed her right glove, and set her hand palm-up on the table. “Do you happen to know how to deal with a stubborn splinter?”

“I can curse a man into thinking every shadow, even his own, is a foe. I assure you I can deal with a splinter.” Tharja leaned over the books and papers, and took Robin’s hand. “Gods, were you trying to dig it out with your nails? _Fool_. That’s a shortcut to infection. Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” Beneath the cruel tone, Tharja applied a cool salve from the tin she pulled out from her satchel. Then she wrapped the finger with a herb leaf, one of the many Tharja had out to compare to botanical plates.

“There. That should draw it out by the morrow.”

“Thank you.” Robin inspected Tharja’s handiwork, the clever way the leaf had been folded over to make a ring. “You haven’t secretly been learning white magic, have you?”

“Don’t make me gag.”

“Ah, one more question. So, about your hair…”

After Tharja described her routine—an elaborate layering of oils and powders, a rare point of vanity for Tharja—Robin went back to her papers. But other matters continued to construct themselves in her mind. Lon’qu’s coldness was just so frustrating. Panne and Libra, too, were among the Shepherds who kept most to themselves, but Robin still struck pleasant conversations with them. Yet she had known Lon’qu for far longer. Her only success with him was that he no longer fled at the sight of her.

There was a sense of grave responsibility there, that she had failed to reach out to him while he was a Shepherd. How could Robin claim that bonds were integral to an army’s cohesion when an ally she had known for years hardly spoke but a few words to her?

It was a shame. There was a moment she thought they considered each other to be friends, right before the war ended. Maybe it had been too fragile, lost in that dreadful span of weeks when the world seemed to have fallen apart and Chrom had to join its shattered pieces together. Robin was busy, too, making sure Chrom himself would not crumble. She couldn’t afford to focus on anything but that, then. Robin couldn’t even recall the goodbyes she made to Olivia and Lon'qu. If she had even made them at all.

Now, an awkwardness clung between Robin and Lon’qu, like clothing hung to dry and gone stiff. Nearly a year without passing a word would do that, Robin supposed.

Robin kept a laugh to herself as another thought struck her.

This was all misconstrued, too much thinking from misplaced pride. More likely, his quietness was not a personal one; after all, he had seemed perfectly agreeable in her office a week ago. 

That upcoming roundtable loomed over them. It was a deep cause for concern for Robin. It had been two long months since Chrom’s departure. In his latest letter, he mentioned how much easier it was to sleep knowing she was in the capital. Robin had written back saying that she slept better with less broken swords and quintains to account for. Chrom had entrusted his affairs to her—she could not let him come back to the capital with them in disarray. She could not fail him.

If Robin and Lon’qu failed to quell the nobles’ protests, Ylisse and Ferox’s newfound alliance was at risk. With those stakes, any diplomat would grow wary. And Lon’qu was no diplomat. She had wondered what she had missed when she was out of the capital last winter, hearing that Lon’qu had been there. Him? Addressing a roomful of nobles, addressing their concerns? Laughable. When Lon’qu explained that he had only been an escort, it made perfect sense.

He had always proved himself on the battlefield—that speed and strength, his ease in carrying out orders. But that couldn’t translate to politics. Not with a blunted tongue, not as a foreigner without any bearings to navigate Ylissean politics.

She understood his silence now. Worry preoccupied him. Surely Basilio was depending on him as much as Chrom depended on her.

There was also something strange about all this. She had sent her letter about Chrom’s continued absence as soon as it was clear he would not be back by the agreed time. Through a royal pegasus courier, even. Yet Lon’qu was here. Why did the Khans send him, not an emissary, to Ylisse? They were keen enough to know that any Feroxi messenger could be accosted by dissidents, eager for proof that Ylisse and Ferox should not become sisters. Simply to deliver documents? Documents that did not seem so pressing? Questions beget more questions.

But she had no time to dwell on this. 

Robin set aside her book and pulled out a sheet of paper. Robin began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I diagnose Robin with... chronic overthinking. Jokes aside, it’s fun pulling from Robin’s more extreme, negative qualities for this period in FE13’s timeline.
> 
> Regarding Lon’qu and Robin’s past conversation on swordplay; I wanted to reference maMUxLon’qu’s support here. I take both variations of Robin’s supports in general as canonically happening. That way, I don’t have to think that feMU missed out on how good the maMU’s conversations with Walhart and Chrom are…  
> Also Felix from FE16’s focus on the sword is such a great and visual way to show his rejection of his father and chivalry. That got me thinking how there’s no textual explanation as for why Lon’qu wields a sword. Of course it’s so he can fit into the Navarre archetype, but that doesn’t help any with writing Lon’qu’s character. With the sword being so symbolically related to chivalry and nobility, it only makes it more confusing, since Lon’qu never shows an interest in knighthood and comes from such a poor background. There’s also the whole thing about someone who never refers to Chon’sin and developed his style in Ferox is a Myrmidon/Swordmaster, which are just thinly-veiled samurais in FE13. But that’s where the gameplay and story get divorced. /Lon’qu-thoughts
> 
> And the brief aside to baker guilds is about this thing I was reading about medieval London’s mercantile landscape, and apparently there were two bakers guilds (whitebakers vs. brownbakers), depending on whether or not you used unsifted flour? And then sometimes they incorporated into one big one? Just weird.


End file.
